A Wretched Use of Summer
by eevilalice
Summary: With Ron dead and his own mother murdered, Draco joins Harry and Hermione as they continue their search for Horcruxes. But he hasn't exactly been very useful. Draco/Hermione/Harry


I wrote this for the **plot_bunny_love** community on LiveJournal. The prompt was "The longest day of the year." The title and opening lines are taken from Gertrude Stein's _Tender Buttons_.

**Warnings** for a bit of het AND slash!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, the characters, the world. They belong to JKR et al. and I make no profit from playing with them.

XXXXX

_Why is there more craving than there is in a mountain. This does not seem strange to one, it does not seem strange to an echo and more surely is in there not being a habit. Why is there so much useless suffering. Why is there._

Granger is reading. It is the longest day of the year, and she is reading in the just-warm, early morning sunlight outside the tent. Some Muggle poet she says is teaching her to stay rooted in the present moment. Constant vigilance. "Moody is dead," I say, and Potter flashes me a look that's almost reproachful.

The wards shimmer as he takes them down, him instead of her, for once. She finished shrinking our—their—things half an hour ago. My job is to stay out of the way. Stay out of the way and let them pretend I'm some substitute for Weasley. I'm not very good at my job, but it's their problem, not mine.

The humidity's already frizzing Granger's tightly bound hair, curls freeing themselves and bunching up. She runs a finger along her lower lip; she does that, a habit. It's irritating, knowing their habits. Potter bites his nails. It's all I can do, sometimes, to keep from grabbing his hand when he does it, but then I wouldn't know what to do with it.

I walk silently up behind Granger and peer down over her shoulder. She hates this. Sometimes it takes her a moment to realize I'm there, but not today. The book's shut with a _thwack_, and she tilts her head to glare at me. The sunlight warms her brown eyes.

"Ready to go," Potter says.

"The sunlight's warming your eyes," I say and hear the soft _pop_ of Potter's Apparition. I follow before she can say anything. Before I can see what her eyes do next.

XXXXX

An endless moor to match the endless day, the stream of days. For the first two weeks I counted them, each day a glass stone I tucked away inside, until I realized I didn't _want_ to remember how long I'd been marching along behind The Boy Who Lived and the other remaining member of his broken trio. Didn't want to remember how long the world had been without my mother.

I stare at the back of Potter's head, the wind whipping his black hair. Does he count the days since Weasley? Since Moody? Dumbledore? Sirius Black? _His_ mother?

We walk for hours, and I swear it's still morning. I swear the sun's barely gone anywhere in the sky. The longest morning of the year. Granger's nosing the book of fairytales again, arguing with Potter. Again. Her voice, high and strained, carries back to me, but not her words.

She turns, sees me.

"Malfoy—Draco, would you—"

They've stopped walking. The wind's almost completely undone Granger's hair. It tangles with Potter's.

I keep my hands in my pockets as I catch up to them.

"Is it lunch yet? I'm getting a headache."

Potter turns, keeps going, but Granger looks surprised. Looks like she expected…something else.

XXXXX

"What is she doing?"

"Dunno."

Granger's sitting beneath the only tree in sight, staring off and away from us. It's been…I don't know how long it's been.

I shift my weight. Sigh. Petulance, sulking, moodiness—all my territory. Granger's the proactive one, but she doesn't even have a book over there, she's not even pacing.

"Wish I was playing Quidditch." Potter's voice is light, offhand.

I turn to face him, raising an eyebrow. He's smiling, eyes a greyer green than normal, like they're attempting to match the landscape with its sun-behind-the-clouds hush.

"Don't you think it would be cool, a Quidditch pitch on a moor like this?"

"Wind would be a bastard."

"You're just making excuses for why I'd kick your arse."

I snort, my mind strangely blank of retorts.

Potter waits a beat before continuing, like he's left space for the absent insult. "I'd give anything to be back at school, loathing you, hell bent on catching the Snitch first. But this is what we have to do."

I note the "we," the firm set of Potter's jaw as he gazes across the moor to where Granger sits. I can't stop looking at him, the scar scratched upon his forehead. Suddenly, he's staring back.

"Why are you here, Draco?"

He knows why. I can't guess what he's looking for, his face uncharacteristically impassive. This moor's turned everyone opposite.

"Because the Dark Lord killed my mother. Then he killed my father because he thought he was useless. I figured it was only a matter of time before he thought I was useless, too." I say it like a list, like I've said it hundreds of times, but I've never said any of this. Not once. Not even in my head.

"Are you? Useless?" Potter doesn't break eye contact. Neither do I. The sun emerges from behind high clouds, and I watch his pupils constrict, the green irises brighten. Then he's turning, fixing his gaze on the tree. On Granger.

I trace his line of sight, see her sitting in the exact same position as before, back against the tree, knees drawn up. I start walking, and she gets closer. The day is still happening.

XXXXX

I heard them one night. Soft pleas from Granger, hushes, an almost-stifled moan. And then, abruptly, nothing. One of them returning to his or her cot.

Every morning I'm hard, but it's nothing to do with them.

We're setting up camp, even though the sunlight's endless. I offer to do the wards, and Granger smiles so brightly and tremulously, you'd think I'd got Weasley's life back. Potter hands me my wand—we're sharing it, though I've got Mum's as well—and I begin casting the spells, the words soothing in my mouth.

When I finish, Granger already has her book out—the poetry; it's too early for supper. I think. All this bloody light.

And Potter's crouched over the plan Granger and I sketched out, biting his nails. The sound's become too familiar, the low clicking like the pages of Granger's books. I march over, grab his hand away, pull him up.

"Would you stop?"

He looks puzzled. I'm still grasping his hand, and I can't figure out if this day is making less and less sense, or more. His palm is sweaty and a little rough. I let go and shove the hawthorn into his hand. Granger watches us.

"How does it feel, you know, when you use it?" I ask, falsely calm. Something's stirring in my stomach; maybe I'm hungry. Maybe it's later than I think. I stare at the horizon. So flat and sharp.

"Not bad, actually. Like it wants me to use it." He's still standing close. He steps closer. "Does it feel different to you?"

It does, but not in any way I can explain, so I don't bother. "No. It still feels like it's mine. But giving it to you, watching you use it…"

"I could…try your mother's—"

"No! Don't even touch it! Either of you!" I round on Potter, then Granger, gripping my mother's wand in my pocket. The warning in my voice is flimsy, and instead of affront I see worry.

A dozen hexes burst through my brain as Granger stands, approaches me slowly, the sun at her back. The sun is in my face, and I don't know what it's doing to my eyes.

She stops, her face inches from mine, lifts her index finger and runs it across my bottom lip. A warm shiver courses through me, and I drop the wand in my pocket, sink my hands into her wind-loose hair. She traces my jaw-line, cradles my face, thumbs feathering along cheekbones. I bring her forward, our breaths shared in the dwindling space, and press my mouth to hers firmly, her lips a pliant force beneath mine. My eyes shut so tightly, yet the sun shines through anyway, an orange-red glow. Like the day's been waiting for this.

I feel a hand on my arm and Potter's presence at my back just as Granger ends the kiss, and I lick my lips, gathering the taste of her. She looks expectantly over my shoulder, and I turn to find him _right there_, the sun a bright globe reflected in both lenses of his glasses. I can't see what shade of green his eyes are, but I know his intent when he leans in. I shove him away, both hands on his chest, just for the sake of it. Because I _have_ to. He grabs my collar, yanks me forward, and I clutch at the sides of his shirt as if I mean to struggle, but I don't, I just hold on as he crushes our mouths together.

And the day is ending, and it keeps ending.


End file.
